Genome
by euchrid eucrow
Summary: Three men, one woman and a story of music, murder, eugenics, rocket science and love. With apologies to Andrew Niccol's "Gattaca."
1. I

Title: **Genome**   
By: Lot49  
Rating: PG-13, R in later chapters.

Summary: Three men, one woman and a story of music, murder, eugenics, rocket science and love. With apologies to the Andrew Niccol's, _Gattaca_.

Disclaimer: The _Phantom of the Opera_ belongs to Gaston Leroux, _Gattaca_ to Andrew M. Niccol and Columbia Pictures. I own neither. Bah.

* * *

_I couldn't really blame my parents; they had been young, idealistic and in love. After all, how could two beautiful, healthy specimens of create anything other than perfection? Any offspring of theirs was bound to be beautiful, intelligent and, most of all, loved. So, of course, they foolishly allowed it to happen. They trusted in nature and conceived a child._

_I was the product of that._

_They didn't make that mistake again._

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

"I'm sorry."

It was all they could say, a litany of hollow apologies, mumbled platitudes deafened by the whirrs, the beeps and hums of million-dollar machinery, all echoing in the antiseptic stench of the birthing room. The parents, exhausted, the father-to-be holding his wife's shoulders as she sobbed.

Accidents happened all the time. The chance you took with a _natural_ conception. _Children of God_, as they called them, had enough disadvantages to be born without having their flaws removed in the single-cell stage. In the bassinet it lay, nine months proof of the cruelty of nature, still slick and shiny with birthing fluids. It was horrific, the infant— no, it wasn't an infant at all, this—this _thing_ that had been pulled of its mother's body, some sort of abomination in of itself. A small, hideous creature, deformed and skeletal, its sheer wax-like skin stretched tight over misshaped bony features. No, it wasn't a child so much as a shriveled little mummy exhumed from an ancient tomb, so very still, so small and dead.

All they could say was, _I'm sorry_. This is what happened when you didn't _plan_, you didn't _prevent_, when you could have had the perfect child, the finest science had to offer, instead of...this.

"It's for the best," one of the many masked faces finally added. "It probably wouldn't have survived the first—"

A sound, a strange ethereal cry broke through, one that lengthened into a low keening wail. They all hung there, in stasis, a room full of breathing, the occasional _beep_ and the crying, that ghostly keen that kept going on and on and on. Finally, one of them moved. Trembling hands gently tied and neatly snipped the umbilical cord, then, carefully lifting a bony foot, pressed an ampule to its heel, drawing a single droplet of blood from the child.

"What are its chances?" grated from the birthing bed, the reluctant father watching the speck of red tumble into the sequencer. For an eternity it seemed, the machine whirred its way through the bit of double-helix, checking, rechecking, comparing and compiling statistics, numbers, all possibilities pumped out in feet after feet of an elongated fortune.

Lifting the printout, the nurse scanned through the lengthy entries, eyes flickering rapidly across the bold statistics.

"Are you sure you want to—"

"_Just read it_."

"Asperger's," the nurse mechanically snapped off, "sixty percent probability. Manic depression: sixty-eight percent. Attention Deficit Disorder: seventy-seven percent. Arrhythmia: ninety-nine percent." She droned on, scrolling down the ticker-tape trail of paper, listing off every defect, every guaranteed failure in the infant's life, until she came to the total sum of his flaws:

"Life expectancy: thirty-two years."

And the child continued to cry.

* * *

1.

* * *

_She remembered laughing, running, an endless summer on the beach with her father and a boy with a mop of hair as golden as hers. She never enjoyed swimming as much as he did. The water was too cold for her, the violent cascade of waves too daunting, and so she preferred instead, to watch —with not little trepidation— as he crept further and further out into the ocean, daring each time to add to the distance until he seemed nothing more than a speck in the waves._

_One particular day was exceptionally windy, breakers smashing onto shore with gusto, but he'd insisted on making his way out again, determined to travel fifty yards further. He would pause every so often to wave back at her before stroking further out into the big blue. Clutching the red scarf about her neck, her hair whipping about her face, she waved back. Another fifty yards and his hand shot out flagging her again. Her own lifted and paused in the air, as ears caught the faint strains of a piano carried in by the wind. The notes were slow and melancholy, almost wistful, winding about her like smoke, its gentle silk threads tugging, beckoning her to follow._

_Her scarf, unnoticed, unwound from her neck and fluttered like a moth out into the foam. _

_She found herself like Gretel of the fairytales, following that elusive trail of sound, gobbling each note up as if it were a piece of shiny candy. She didn't notice when she passed several beach houses, creeping up a brushed path, never realizing the sun gradually fading into shade until she felt cobblestones cold against her bare feet. But she kept moving, tiptoeing steadily forward, afraid to disturb the dream, until at last she came to the gray-smoked picture window of a shaded cottage. There, there— the source of that music, her hands and forehead pressed against the darkened glass, she closed her eyes and let the notes capture her mind, her heart, and imagined angels. She'd heard it, papa! She'd finally heard it..._

_"Lotte!" The shout came from behind, and the glorious sounds dissipated, as if startled by the abrupt intrusion. Her eyes snapping open, she turned to see the boy, sleek and wet as a small otter, running up the path and brandishing an equally soggy red scarf like the head of a slain dragon._

_Surprised, she touched her neck. She hadn't even been aware._

_"What're you doing all the way out here?" He handed the scarf back to her, frowning at her fingerprints dotting the glass._

_"I heard something. Music. Someone playing. It was so..." Her eyes lit up. "Do you know who it might be?"_

_He stare at the window, face set in concentration, as if trying to glare through the frosted glass in admonition of whatever lay behind it. "No one," he finally said. "It's no one." With a firm hand on her wrist, he pulled her away. She didn't protest, she never did, but glanced reluctantly back, as he led her out of the shade and into the sand and sunlight._

* * *

The piercing roar of rocket engines shattered the otherwise quiet afternoon, and Christine Daae blinked, tilting her head up towards the shuttle as it shimmied and whined in the distance, slicing through the air at 18,000 miles an hour, pushing it's way into space.

She'd watched every launch for the past 358 days, at first contenting herself with simply observing the takeoffs through the giant picture window in the main lobby of the Gattaca Aerospace Corporation. Then, as if to bring herself closer, she moved outdoors into the courtyard. A month ago, she'd discovered the rooftop of the hothouse complex, and here, among the columns of concrete and shiny surfaces, she discovered the closest she could ever climb towards heaven. Or space.

The roof of the hothouse wasn't the highest building in the corporation. It wasn't even the best view. But then again, the launches were no longer the main reason she came every day to this isolated patch of space. Christine glanced at her watch. Seventeen-hundred and nineteen hours. As the seconds hand dragged towards the top, she wrapped her arms around herself, tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Ah, yes, there it was: the soft strains of a violin, always at the culmination of each launch.

Oh, the music knew she was there listening, a perfectly rapt audience of one, but it seemed content to ignore the other roof occupant, after all, it wasn't playing for _her_. Still, Christine kept this discovery a secret to herself, occasionally daring to pretend a particular piece was crafted for her ears instead of wasted on unappreciative and unhearing rocket ships.

On several occasions, she'd slipped to the roof early, hoping to catch a glimpse of a figure, this _virtuoso_ approaching, but it never worked. No one entered or left through the elevator, nor were there any signs of life near the rear-left stairwell. But every day, at precisely five-twenty, the music began, the violin played —never the same tune twice— and intrigue would stir in her veins.

All in all, it was a fruitless effort, attempting to trace the source of that sound. One moment it seemed to come from behind the pillar to her left. The next, across the expanse of rooftop. Another time, right behind her. She realized, belatedly, that this mysterious violinist was taunting her. _Give it up_, it seemed to warn, and she knew, if she chased it too hard, too ardently, the music would one day disappear.

So, she contented herself with the scraps, the fragments of song doled out to her, some familiar, some new, but always magnificent. Yesterday, it had been _Holst_, in tribute to the nine-man journey to Jupiter. Today...

Eyes still shut, she concentrated. And smiled.

_The Gypsy Song _from _Carmen_.

She imagined the whimsical and provocative joy, fingers and bow dancing on the strings in the dark thrill of seduction. Unconsciously, she began to hum along, following the main progression, her voice attaching to the melody. And as the violin's tempo and volume increased, so did hers, until she suddenly found herself _a cappella_. It took several seconds for her to notice the violin had faded away, and she abruptly stopped, mortified.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, shoulders drooping, arms winding even more tightly around her midsection, afraid if she raised her voice, she would drive the music off completely. "I won't do it again. Please. Please continue."

A long moment of silence followed, one Christine didn't dare to breathe for fear of disturbing the atmosphere.

"_Stand up straight._" She whipped about abruptly at the voice that seemed to have come from right behind her, but met only with air and Plexiglas. Apparently, the mysterious music came with an equally mysterious voice. How shockingly male it was too, deep and honeyed — like caramel, with just a suggestion of something European. "_Your posture is wretched. You cannot expect to sing properly slouching like that_."

Apparently, also a critic, to boot.

Resisting the urge turn a second time and look like a complete fool, Christine obeyed. Straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin, she unwrapped her arms from herself. And waited.

More silence. Then, softly, it began again, the first few opening bars. At that moment it finally clicked in, _the voice wanted her to sing_. And she found herself crushed by the most wrenching weight of performance anxiety she could have ever imagined. Heart thundering against her chest, mouth cottony, Christine froze, mind trapped in what the navigational programmers would have termed a _null-point error_.

The violin slowed, then stopped. It seemed to be waiting, but her voice simply wasn't there. Then, to Christine's chagrin, it started _again_, the opening bars, the introduction, the lead in. Apparently, now that she'd opened her big fat mouth and trod all over his (because she now knew, quite unequivocally, that her ghostly violinist was, in fact, a _he_) former solo act, _he_ wasn't about to let her gracefully retreat; no, not until she'd made a suitable ass out of herself.

Fine then. She would sing.

_I'll tell you why I wanna dance.  
It ain't the sweetness in the music,   
I like the sweetness in the music,   
But that ain't why I wanna dance._

Softly, timidly at first, the first semi-public performance she'd engaged in since her disastrous audition for the Conservatory. No one except her shower head had a chance to ever witness her sing again. That was, until today.

There, on the rooftop, high above the earth, she felt her nervousness slowly dissipate. Pushed, prodded and driven by the insistent strains of the violin, she fell easily into the rhythm of the second verse, her voice gaining power, confidence. On the third she hit her stride, struck nearly dumb by the simple joy of it. Faster it went, it felt free, glorious, and when she ended her line—

_Kick him out the door!_

— the music continued to spin rapidly, a furious allegro climbing until it culminated in the final strains of the violin's notes. Christine found herself bent over, panting as if she'd run a marathon. It took several more moments before she straightened, self-consciously pressing out the new creases in her suit.

"That," she said, once she'd caught her breath. "That was..."

No response. The violin and voice had disappeared as inconspicuously as it had arrived.

Disappointed, but deciding to dawdle a bit longer, Christine watched the sun set from the roof, waiting until the last bit of light sank under the horizon and hundreds of halogen bulbs blinked on in rapid succession. As the queer and rare rush of endorphins swirling through her nervous system trickled to more manageable levels, she reluctantly made her way back to reality.

Seventeen floors down, three tubes away: the distance to Programming, a lengthy but not significant walk. She strode up center aisle, passing through rows upon rows of identical gray cubicles, each one impeccably neat, each flat-screen monitor at the same angle, keyboard and mouse in exact place, every bit of ergonomically correct furniture virtually indistinguishable from the other. Everything, so precise, so perfect, it hurt her eyes.

Swiveling left, she entered the office shared with her boss. Director Gabriel had left for the day, the screensaver on his monitor blocking out a series of shuttle flight paths and patterns. With a smile, Christine reached over and shut it off before turning to her own imperfect, untidy little desk.

A folder detailing the Mission to 951 Gaspra sat atop a pile of papers, ready to be checked, then entered into the system. Thumbing through the manifest, she noted the names, recognizing a small number of them.

As she replaced the folder back atop the stack, she spotted a corner of something peeking out of her drawer tray. Tugging it open revealed a postcard-sized note sitting atop the collection of pens and paperclips. Clipped to it were sheets of music, the cover page titled, _Les tringles des sistres tintaient_.

Christine's head snapped up, and she glanced wildly around, going so far as to step out into the hallway, but the office and adjoining corridors were soundless and empty.

Atop the cream-colored card, the laser print of a two-line note simply read:

_Tomorrow._

And below it—

_The way it was meant to be sung._

* * *

Music: _Beat Out Dat Rhythm on a Drum_ and _Les tringles des sistres tintaient_ come from **Carmen** **Jones** and **Carmen**, respectively. Same song, essentially. **Carmen Jones** was adapated from _Bizet_'s opera and rewritten with English lyrics.

Card trick in the dark: Christine's red scarf is rather like Holden Caulfield's hunting cap, no?


	2. II

* * *

2.

* * *

_VEHICLE: Prophete /OV-221 (2nd flight)  
LAUNCH PAD: 39B  
KSC LAUNCH DATE/TIME: Oct 4, ——4, 17:20  
KSC LANDING DATE/TIME: Oct 15, ——5, 13:30  
MISSION DURATION: 375 Days 19 Hrs. 10 Minutes  
PRIMARY PAYLOADS: Utilization Flight-1, Valerious Multi-Purpose Transmission Module (MPTM)  
CREW: 7  
COMMANDER: de Chagny_

_Overview — STS-1861 will be the first manned space shuttle mission to visit TITAN. Space Shuttle Prophete will deliver the Expedition Crew led by Commander Raoul de Chagny to collect and analyse sample cores from the satellite. Also, STS-1861 will deliver the Valerious Multi-Purpose Transmission Module which will provide data and carrier signal support for the Cassini-Huygens probe presently on TITAN's surface. _

EXTRACT  
**Flight Manifest STS-1861: Titan Expedition  
Property of Gattaca Aerospace Corporation  
CONFIDENTIAL**

* * *

_SENDER_ OV-221.STS-1861.67843.CD.DECHAGNYR  
_RECIPIENT_ N 39 01' 12.9517" W 76 49' 41.1671" GAT.AR.B3.FDO.DAAEC   
_TIME_ ——51004T1954030  
_BEGIN TRANSMISSION_

The video feed jiggled and blipped, before clarifying into the striking face of STS-1861's Mission Commander. Leveling a boyish smile at the camera, Raoul de Chagny waved somewhat sheepishly to his audience of one.

"Well, here we are, two-point-two billion miles from earth, floating in this bucket of rivets." He leaned forward, murmuring conspiratorially. "You have no idea what it's like to have to share a bathroom with six other people. The navigator, Morrow? He's the worst. No one needs to take _that_ long a shower. Still." Drawing back again, he turned to the window behind him, eyes distant, lost in the recesses of space. "You can't beat the view."

As the video zoomed out, revealing more of the crew compartment, he jerked a thumb at to the nebulous ball of purple and blue in the distance.

"That's Titan over there. The surface is cloudy and kind of murky. Atmosphere's full of nitrogen...methane...argon...makes it difficult to get a good view of...anything, really. It's a bit like Fresno. But once you get underneath it, see what's happening beneath the surface...there are sheets of just solid ice everywhere, plains, hills mountains, and there are canyons carved out all over the place, filled with liquid methane. The surface temperature is roughly ninety-seven Kelvin." With a perfectly straight face, he added: "making it a little warmer than Minnesota in the winter.

"This is what earth was supposed to have been like at the beginning." His mouth quirked up into a grin as he thoughtfully tapped his lower lip. "Personally, I think it's a prime investment. We could get in on the ground floor of a few thousand miles of wasteland, build a couple condos. In three, four billion years, who knows what it could be worth?"

The smile dropped from his features, and as he gestured for the camera to zoom in once more, he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, idly twiddling his thumbs, before leaning forward again. When he finally spoke again, it was softer. Serious.

"That, ah, question I wanted to ask you. Before I left. You told me to wait until after I had time to think about it a bit more. Well, it's been a year, and I haven't thought about anything else. So yes, I still want to ask it. Hopefully, I'll get an answer this time."

A hand nervously streaked through his short, sandy locks, mussing the otherwise neat coiffure.

"Guess I'll find out in...ten days, thirteen hours and forty-five minutes."

As the video signal squiggled and faded out, his last words filtered through, muffled, slightly garbled, but still understandable.

"I miss you, Christine. Love you."

_END TRANSMISSION  
PACKET TERMINATED_

* * *

A/N: For some bizarre reason, during Raoul's show 'n tell, I kept imagining one of Steve Zissou's monologues. Heh. 


	3. III

* * *

3.

* * *

_Eugenics merely asks that we do something to lessen the dangers of falling in love — to render it more safe for young people to form attachments, to marry, and to rear offspring without discovering later on that their mate springs from a hopelessly tainted family, and that their children must be born in the world biologically disinherited and everlastingly condemned to eke out their existence in association with the lower levels of human existence._

**The science of eugenics and sex—life, love, marriage, maternity: the regeneration of the human race  
** W.J. Hadden, C.H. Robinson, and M.R. Melendy

* * *

The impeccable, clean lines of Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired architecture ran throughout the entire aerospace complex, a subtle, sharp watermark, influencing even seemingly casual places as the main cafeteria. Immaculately trimmed plants in a pseudo-arboretum setting bordered the hundred-odd umbrella-tipped tables for four. Soft classical music murmured through hidden speakers as sunlight trickled in, warm and bright through the translucent dome, enhancing the lush greenery and dissipating shadows, the closest you could hope for any high-budget paradise, south of Eden.

In the hours between twelve and fourteen hundred, a steady trickle of employees would meander in, each one in their neatly pressed suits, picking up their trays and silverware, moving through the queue in a well-dressed conveyer line.

For Meg Giry, lunch time was prime specimen watching hour, the single largest conglomeration of everyone's imperfections laid bare. You could tell a lot about a person by the lunch they ordered. A New York strip, medium, obviously had no fear of failing the cholesterol test or the _de rigeurs_ of the weekly physical exams. But those were rare. More common were the strictly regimented diets, the whole-grain sandwiches filled with rabbit food or, skipping the bread altogether, some sanitary, wholly unappealing mass of lawn clippings they had the gall to call a salad.

Meg was, admittedly, one of the slightly-imperfect types who_ should_ have been looking more at a spinach bowl with low-fat, calorie free dressing. However, the possibility of increasing her lifespan by a whopping three-and-a-half hours was not enough to separate her from the particularly delightful piece of salmon almandine sitting atop a bed of sticky rice. Ignoring the jealous glances sprinkled in her general direction, she chewed her bit of repast with all appropriate gusto, complete with accompanying noises suitable for soft-core pornography.

"You really need to try this." Impaling a chunk of fish on her fork, she waved it enticingly in front of her dining companion. "It's _divine_."

Christine merely flipped a page in her stack of music, before absently stabbing her own utensil into the bowels of a rather wilted-looking salad.

With a sigh, Meg, popped the piece into her own mouth, gaze darting around the room as she continued to take in her surroundings. To her left, an engineer swallowed a handful of capsules for allergy prevention. Two tables over, a navigator she recognized as Hoffmann, slipped her sachet of pills back into her purse. Across the room, Standridge delicately swished down a packet of blood thinners before shoving her fork into a bed of something unappealingly green.

More common though, were the _apparently_ healthy, the paranoid desperately trying to stave off the most minimal probabilities — of even the mere possibility of disease, of unwanted, inherited traits; preventative medicine at its most pervasive echoing in the cacophony of pill boxes randomly popping open and shut. And all of them had salads on their trays.

_Reductio ad absurdum_, her mother had once called it, as she dropped a blood sample into the analyzer. _Utter foolishness! Letting a piss test dictate your life_. What an odd statement, coming from the director of the testing lab. _Her_, of all people.

Meg's eyes fell on the small plastic case on the tray opposite hers. Even the woman across the table from her.

There'd a time when Christine had been equally as careless, when all her thoughts were of being a singer, and Meg, a dancer. They'd shared a place, a loft on the east side with enough room for the both of them to move comfortably about. And although Meg had far too many disadvantages to ever take dancing as anything more than a hobby, she dreamed, secretly, through her best friend. After an exhausting eight hours of assisting with blood tests, physical examinations, and staring at DNA sequences, she would come home and Christine would grab her hands and, with unabashed giggles and much merriment, they would dance all around the open floor.

Raoul would visit three times a week and he would treat them to dinner. Arms linked on either side of his, they would stride down the sidewalk, laugh and tease the flyboy mercilessly before hopping into his Thunderbird convertible. From there on, the laughs would turn to shrieks as he gunned the monster down the road in pure guy-style revenge.

Everything had been easy then.

Auditions came and passed. Meg never knew what had transpired, though she'd more than an inkling. Upon returning, Christine had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped, only offering in way of explanation, "Some people were not made to sing."

A week later, she'd begun a strict regimen — vitamins, blood thinners, gemfibrozil, niacin, cholestyramine and a handful of other designer health drugs.

Another month later she'd moved in with Raoul to his condo overlooking the beach.

Not too long after that, Meg had returned from her lunch, surprised to see Christine sitting there in the lab, hair knotted up at the back of her head, bound from neck to toe in a conservative blue pantsuit.

"You have to grow up some time," she shrugged, handing her the filled specimen cup.

It was only natural, then, that the younger Giry would find herself in nonplussed at seeing her best friend, after three years of, well, _nothing_, buried headlong in a stack of music for the second day in a row. With an exasperated sigh, her fingers tucked into the top fold of the sheets, bending them down to reveal the face of her dining companion.

"Christine," she said sweetly, as the other woman blinked at her. "Was there something you were planning to tell me?"

All she received in response was another distracted flicker of baby blues. "Such as?"

"This sudden renewed interest in opera? Singing? Private lessons, perhaps?"

"You could say that," came the evasive reply. It was really too bad Christine was such a terrible liar. Charming, in a way. But still...

"Are you're having an affair?"

"What?" That seemed to have snapped her out of her music-induced daydream. "No! Of course not. It's singing, all right? Just singing." A small, pensive smile edged onto the corners of he lips. "I'd almost forgotten how it felt. How glorious it was."

Now they were getting somewhere. "So tell me then," Meg grinned, "this...tutor...you've been making all this beautiful..." She flipped up the cover sheet. "_Bizet_ with? Anyone I know?"

"I, ah, can't really say," muttered Christine.

"So, it's keeping secrets from best friends now?"

Silence.

Hurt, Meg abruptly stood, grasping her tray.

"Wait!" A hand shot out to catch her arm. "It's not that." Glancing nervously about, Christine sank lower into her seat. "It's just...I don't know."

"I see." Actually she didn't, but there was no point in letting that particular nugget loose. Mollified for the moment, she settled back down into her chair.

Twenty minutes of hushed explanations later, accompanied by the requisite fidgeting and napkin-twisting on Christine's side from the battery of embarrassing and rather pointed questions on Meg's, the latter's state of incredulousness was summarily brought to a head by her final verdict of:

"I hate to say it, but this whole thing sounds a wee bit, oh..."

"Absurd?"

"I was heading more towards creepy, but I suppose absurd works."

"It's not as if he's instructing me to stay at home sharpening knives! This is Gattaca. Safest place in the world." Christine sighed, passing a hand over her face. "It really is ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Admitting it is half the battle. Now, what are you going to do?"

The fork, busy mangling the now even sadder salad, paused as she raised her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You're going to just keep loitering on rooftops, singing for a violin-playing ventriloquist who slips notes and music in your desk?"

"...no?"

"Try it again, this time with a little more backbone."

The poor, abused utensil clanked onto Christine's tray with disgust. At the next table, three suits from programming collected the remains of their lunch.

"What do you expect me to do? Have him sequenced?"

Meg thoughtfully rubbed her chin. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."

"That...that's great, Meg. Do I just hold out a cup and say, '_Hi! Mind filling this for me?_'"

"Smartass. At least give me _something_ to work with. I'll even take a fingerprint. Bag it up and I'll send it through the machines."

After all, there were advantages to being a lab brat through and through. Every technique, every bit of shufflery used to swipe honest samples from prospective employees, the younger Giry had learned from the expert — her mother. A print off a doorknob. A handshake. A bit of eyelash, perhaps, could reveal a secret. Even spit off the lip of a water cup. At the worst, a drug test could be readily administered. It kept the system...fair. Well, as far as Gattaca was concerned.

"This—it doesn't seem right." For reasons unknown to Meg, the very thought of it appeared to agitate Christine.

"It's only information," she reasoned. "Common, at that. And it's not as if you haven't done it before, or do I disremember the full sequence you had run on Raoul?"

A grimace. "He insisted."

"Now there's a man with his priorities in place. I venture he's at least a nine. I'd say a... "

"Nine-two." Leaning over, Christine picked up the valise that lay by her left foot and tucked the libretto inside, before setting it back down.

Meg whistled, impressed. "When's your fiancé supposed to be back, anyway?"

The smile that lit up Christine's face could have rivaled the incoming afternoon rays from the overhead dome. "One more week." It dimmed considerably as she reached for her pill box, snapping the lid open and shut. "He's not my fiancé."

"Uh huh." Meg leaned over and playfully flicked at the necklace partly hidden in the collar of the other woman's blouse. "And the two-carat rock hanging from that thing is just his way of saying '_let's be friends._'" As she shifted back into her chair, she studied the woman before her "You miss him, don't you?"

"Terribly."

"When can I expect a wedding invitation?"

The other woman merely shrugged.

Her temper exploded in a large sigh. "I don't get you, Christine. Nine-two! The guy's a serious catch. He's gorgeous, intelligent, funny—"

"I take it you've heard about his '_Condos on Titan_' project, then?"

Her lips quirked up. "He _is_ a bit of a goofball, isn't he?" She shook her head. "But he adores you. He's probably going to do something revoltingly romantic when he comes back, like shower you with flowers right before sweeping you off your feet and...I have no idea why you're looking like you've been forced to attend an execution."

The lid snapped shut as Christine rolled the case over in her hands, eyes abstractly fixed on the remains of her repast. "It's not that. I agree, Raoul's wonderful. More than everything I could ever hope for. He's practically..."

"Perfect?"

Her fingers stilled, pill box gripped so tightly, its edges dug painfully into her palms, as she continued to stare disconsolately at her salad.

"Yeah," she said, making a hopeless sound of sad amusement. "Perfect."

* * *

The distant echo of engine report drifted to her hears as Christine entered through the stairwell door, breathless from haste. She turned to the sky, eyes following the plume of booster trails streaking away, twin stars of thrusters glowing in the distance.

"_You missed it,_" the voice greeted her.

"Held hostage by paperwork," she apologized. "Sudden budgetary changes came through the channel. Did I miss you play?"

"_I waited for you._"

For some absurd reason, that pleased her immensely.

"_After all, what is an opera without its diva?_"

So went the practice, line by line, the French still somewhat foreign in her mouth, but he patiently guided her through the passages, every word, every accented pitch of his voice a dark, thrilling timbre in her ears.

_Les tringles des sistres tintaient   
avec un éclat métallique,   
et sur cette étrange musique   
les zingarellas se levaient._

More verses in and her confidence and voice grew. And when Christine came to the _tra-la-la_, she smiled mischievously, slipping back into her old repertoire:

_Beat out that rhythm on a drum,   
Beat out that rhythm on a drum,_   
_Beat out that rhythm on a drum,_   
_And I don't need no tune at all!_

She could almost hear the ghostly shudder, that low hum of mild exasperation. Chuckling in a rare fit of unabashed delight, she strolled to the edge of the rooftop, taking in the hues of the setting sun.

"I missed it," she murmured, a bit mournfully.

"_There will be another one tomorrow._"

A barely discernable shake of her head. "If the cutbacks go through, it might be the last one for a while."

"_Do you only come here to observe the launches?_"

"No," she whispered. "Not anymore." Turning in what she thought the voice's direction came from, head tilted slightly, she asked, "With no more flights, who will you play for? After all, isn't that the only reason you come here?"

There was a chunk of uncomfortable silence. Then, "_Not anymore._"

And for just one single moment, that tiny, unmarked space of time, her breath caught.

"It's strange being up here, sometimes," Christine finally sighed. "Almost surreal. It feels like another place. Another country. Another planet." A breeze ruffled the collar of her jacket and her arms made their way, almost by reflex, to wrap around her body. "Would you play something?"

A quiet bit of pause passed, and then the strains of Vivaldi rang through the air. _Autumn_ from the _Four Seasons_, she recognized. A second rustle of October wind blew across the rooftop, wrapping the sound about her ears.

Slowly, as if in a trance, she slipped out of her heels, drifting towards the music's source, stockinged feet soundless against the wind and notes, as her ears sought to pinpoint their origins. Each step brought her closer, marked by the fractional increase to the music's volume. Across the rooftop she slinked, arpeggio dancing in her veins, weaving between the columns, realizing, this, _this_ was as close as she had ever managed to get.

A wall ran partway across the rear of the landing, a sharp right turn beckoned at the end.

Close. So very close. Christine could almost taste it, touch it, the sharp strokes of the allegro invading her fingertips. She ran them lightly over the painted brick, tracing their vibrations, as her heart pounded painfully in her ears.

The music stopped, like a needle being pulled off a gramophone.

Swiftly, she turned the corner...

...And was met by a retaining wall. For several moments she stared stupidly at the dead end. Then, in silent frustration, smacked her fist up against it.

_Stupid, stupid!_ Her eyes slipped shut at the utter futility. He'd known. Of course. He'd known all along.

When she opened them again, prepared to retreat in defeat, she almost missed it. It was tiny, nearly insignificant in contrast to the whitewashed concrete, and for several seconds, she merely stared at it, at the ground, incomprehension clacking through her head.

A small gust angled down, lifting it into the air, and with quick reflexive action that surprised her, Christine bent and quickly snatched it, mid-float, before the wind had a chance to take it away.

Clutched between index and forefinger, she held up to the fading light, a strand of fine, black hair.


	4. IV

* * *

IV.

* * *

_For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed to feel for it, for all the celebrations it had been the object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness, and playing the part of dangerous abettor of world-wide ambitions._

**The Mirror of the Sea **   
Joseph Conrad

* * *

The dark cherry Citroen rolled to a stop under the glare of a red traffic light, convertible top shimmying back to let in the cooling night air. Its driver leaned back languidly rolling her neck with a diaphragm-deep sigh. Tapping her fingers idly on the dash, Christine's gaze wandered idly around her surroundings, passing over coffee shops and storefronts before falling upon the neon-decorated booth the size of a ticket concession stand.

On the left corner, its headliner proudly boasted _SEQUENCING-WHILE-YOU-WAIT, _its queue of customers, a constant, unabated flow. Each one pressed their evidence into the steel metal tray under a teller window. Hair, skin, spunk and spit delivered in baggies, vials, anything, provided it was a good, fresh sample - taken and chucked it into a machine, and for a mere eighty-five dollars, you were rewarded with a twelve-foot printout of your prospective _whatever_.

Her eyes dropped to the object occupying the passenger seat: an innocuous, nine-inch plastic tube.

Unless you knew certain lab rats.

_Pacing back and forth across the room of instruments, shuffling the valise from hand to hand, surrounded by needles and hazmat bags, iodine swabs and ammonia. _

_"Are you sure you want to see this?"_

_Footsteps stilling. A glance. Details on the screen too small, too far away for her to catch anything more than a grainy black-and-white employee photo at the top. _

_"Maybe he has a deep, dark secret. Something so awful and lurid, he's forced to hide away from the world."_

_And that, she thought, was the crux._

_A tap of the print key. Rolled up results packed neatly into a small transport tube. A transfer of hands. And Meg's knowing smile._

_"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"_

The light changed. Christine stepped on the accelerator, managing all of three blocks before being halted by another red. Irritation pricked at her shoulders and neck.

The finest technology to reach the stars and they still couldn't figure out how to properly time a sequence of stoplights.

Yet another sequencing booth, with its never-ending stream of clientele, operated kitty-corner. At one window, a well-dressed woman parted her lips as the teller swabbed a Q-tip over them. Next over, a CSR handed a man back a dossier. A third customer stepped up to the window slot, and dropping a small vial of some milky substance into the tray.

Christine averted her eyes and fixed them back on the road ahead, hands white-knuckled against the steering wheel.

_"Thank you for taking the time to come down." Seat after seat of impassive faces. Polite, smarmy condescension. "Unfortunately, you're not quite what we're looking for." _

_"But I haven't even sung five bars!" _

_"Oh, I don't think we need to hear any more."_

_"If you just give me a chance, I'll show you what I can—"_

_"Perhaps we did not make ourselves clear, Ms. Daae." Five toothy smiles; a perfect gleaming row of white picket fences. "With your pre-existing condition, I guarantee no conservatory will accept you. You have potential, but unfortunately, your liabilities are too severe."_

_"Liabilities? I don't..."_

_And there it was, her application innocuously sitting on the edge of the table, a corner peeled up from the envelope, revealing a yellow tinge of glue. They'd already made their decision._

Reluctantly, almost involuntarily, Christine's line of sight crept back to her own Pandora's tube. Like the mystery himself, it teased and mocked her relentlessly, secrets begging to be unsealed.

It occurred to her that perhaps she didn't want to know. Didn't want to put a face, a form, something so prosaic and..._human_ to it all. And what did it matter anyway?

In the course of her circular musings, she could hardly be bothered to notice a black Studebaker Avanti pulling up next to her, until its headlights flickered, catching her attention. As she glanced over at tinted windows, opaque under the street lamps, the lights flickered again, accompanied by an engine rev, an unspoken dare.

Common sense told Christine to ignore the juvenile challenge. Reason also chimed in with grandmotherly-sounding pragmatism. Casually, almost imperceptibly, she toed the clutch, gliding the stick from neutral into first.

When the light flashed green, they both peeled out of the intersection, tearing through the streets in unrestrained fury.

The Avanti was impressive, handling remarkably well down the stretch of road, its engine working into a fevered whine right before it shifted into higher gear. Christine's Chapron, however, was no ordinary fuel spitter. The DS21 (to the discovery and chagrin of one Meg Giry) hit comfortable cruising velocity at eighty or so, and like the good little masochist it was, not only liked to be pushed beyond most reasonable limits, but begged for more afterwards, as witnessed by the second and third gears snapping into play under an expert hand.

Still a full length ahead, the Studebaker flashed its left signal.

Lips curled up and the pink tip of tongue darted out to lick the right edge of her mouth as Christine ratcheted the shifter up another gear. The tube, having long lost its seat, bounced happily around on the passenger floor, forgotten.

_Fourth_.

They spun around the next corner, a precise snap turn pressing the Cabriolet's low profile body a half length forward, he brief burning smell of rubber and asphalt tickling her nose. Adrenaline burned hot and fast, pure liquid octane sizzling down Christine's nerves, until it bled out into the steering wheel. Wind bit at her face, rippling through her hair; one hand idly flicked back a stray blonde lock that had flown apart from the rapidly loosening knot of her hair; the other pushed the stick up _just_ _one more notch_.

_Fifth._

Street lamps faded into the distance as both cars blew away from the over lit downtown district. Abandoning the race altogether, both cars cruised down the strip at easier (though still highly illegal) speeds.

The Studebaker moved like a finely tuned shadow over the darkened highway, wheels humming over the cool night road, the barest kiss of light slicking over its form. Next to it, the Citroen fairly glowed fire and burgundy, the knot of Christine's hair, having come completely undone, flew wildly behind her, a pale shock of sunlight under the occasional pulse of a halogen.

As the stretch of highway eventually coalesced into familiar landmarks of houses and outlines of other beachfront property, and as her home loomed into view Christine reluctantly decelerated.

Time for all good little girls to put the toys away and go to bed.

The car beside her also slowed, puzzled. She shook her head at the tinted window, and it hesitated for a moment longer, seemingly undecided, before accelerating off into the night.

Her gaze lingered on the road long after the other car's taillights had faded from sight, then, reluctantly, she turned down the paved driveway and into the underground garage.

Soft white lights brightening to half-luminance greeted her as she stepped into the apartment, dropping her valise onto the kitchen counter. They had been the first things she'd insisted changing upon moving in, protesting the bleakness of his overhead fluorescents. Raoul had merely shrugged, smiled and let her rule _carte blanche_.

_Just don't put up curtains_, had been his only request, as he stood before the ceiling-to-floor windows, admiring the breathtaking view of the ocean as it extended to the horizon and beyond.

Printout in hand, Christine padded to the window, past the sleek lines of the king-sized bed, to where he had stood only a year ago, contemplating the expanse of water bucking and rolling below.

No, Christine could _—would—_ never deny him that. Every morning, until the day he'd left, she'd observed him through the window, carving his way through the waves, as he fearlessly swam out to sea. She'd bite her thumbnail, quiet and breathless, haunted by an inexplicable, nagging fear that one day he'd drift too far out and never return. He always did, though, never faltering, always paddling back to her with sure, even strokes.

As always, she would meet him on the beach, carefully behind the creeping water line, watching him emerge, shoulders, waist, hips and legs rising out of the waves, salt water sluicing off his form. And, as always, he would turn back, just once more towards the big blue, an abstract, restless gaze, as if he'd left something back there, hidden in the ocean's depths.

_"What are you looking for?" She'd queried one morning, as he dragged himself in from the surf. _

_His head shook slowly, scattering water droplets into the air. "What?"_

_"You seem to always be looking for something."_

_"Oh," he hesitated. "I don't know. A memory, I guess."_

_Then, as if to forestall any more questions, he pulled her protesting form against his damp skin, lifting her so her feet hovered above the water, and pressed a dozen salty kisses to her mouth._

Even now, seventeen years after the summer, she still found herself afraid of the ocean, of its unpredictability and violence. Something about the illusion of being suspended above all that open water terrified her, as if any moment the floor would give away beneath her and she would disappear in the currents below.

She shuddered, slightly, at the sound of foot-high waves crashing to shore. In another week they would grow another six inches, perhaps a foot; the water margin would creep another yards or so inland. The ocean would reclaim the shore and Raoul would return.

One man's mistress, the big blue, the other...

Lifting the printout, she unrolled and scanned its preliminary contents.

_Engineer, Class VI  
Guidance, Navigation and Control Systems._

...rocket ships and engines.

She studied the photo a bit longer. Dark haired. Light eyed. Pleasant but (confirmed by another lingering look) unremarkable features.

And then there was the name.

"_Erik Jonathan Reyer._" Its intonation tumbled strangely around her mouth, even as she attached all those letters, that face, to the voice and violin.

Further perusal into the endlessly detailed streams of ATGC nucleotides revealed something Christine had rarely witnessed: a band layout so even and measured, it seemed almost unreal.

With a laugh, she tossed the length of paper over her shoulder, before turning back towards the window. The printout arched in the air, fluttering like a streamer, as it wound itself into a lazy pile on the floor.

"Erik," she repeated.

Curiously, as if moving from some half-blotted bit of muscle memory, her hand found itself pressed to the glass.

* * *

She nearly missed it, thoughts occupied elsewhere, as her fingers mindlessly keyed in updates to the endless stacks of flight rosters into the console. It was only because of a mild falter, a misspelling, that Christine had come upon his name yet again, this time third on the manifest list of an upcoming mission.

As her right hand backspaced over the "c," replacing it with a "k," the other flipped the dossier back to its front page.

_Europa Ice Clipper Expedition_, the cover read, its scheduled launch date still several months off. Above it, in the upper right hand corner, the Flight Director's double-underlined scrawl printed out the flight's mark of death in bold red print.

_Recommend cancellation_.

Behind her, a thin, middle-aged man with a perpetually pinched expression carved into his face, scribbled another mark on the cover of a flight folder before tossing it atop the ever increasing stack on the corner of his desk. Christine tried not to wince.

One more budget cut. One more grounded flight.

She thumbed through the pages of _Europa_ documentation, biting back a sigh. It might not have been the most sought after expedition on the boards, but the sudden decision reeked of much more than a simple budgeting decision. All the research, four billion dollars in designs, impactor hardware and propulsion systems, to be summarily written off, seemed a little too arbitrary, somehow.

"That," Christine glanced up to the creased features of the Mission Director, as he gestured to the folder in her hands, "is exactly what I was looking for."

Plucking the documents from her slack grip, Poligny ignored the marking on the front, deliberately fingering through the pages. He paused when he reached the roster of names on the flight manifest, lowering the brief, as he favored the Flight Director's assistant with a thoughtful look.

"My assistant, unfortunately, is out today, and as I have several people to see..." His gaze dropped meaningfully back to the contents of the folder. "Perhaps you could accompany me, Ms. Daae?" She started, slightly, surprised he even knew her name. "That is, if your boss doesn't mind."

Half arched out of her chair, Christine threw a pleading look back at Gabriel, who merely grunted. Before his fingers had even finished their disinterested wave of dismissal, she had already followed Poligny out the door.

Polite nods and greetings from the ever-moving stream of impeccable dark suits passed by as they made their way through the main tube. The Flight Director chatted, with casual animation, about the flights he'd witnessed in his tenure at Gattaca, gesticulating enthusiastically as he described the first Cassini mission, how everyone had remained fixed to their screens as the first transmitted photos trickled in through the satellites.

"It took nearly seven years to reach Saturn, the first time. Now, it's a month there, another back." The dossier dangled lightly from his fingers. "The _Titan_ expedition is supposed to return soon, isn't it?"

"In six days, sir."

He nodded, and they continued down the hall.

"How long have you been with us, Christine?"

"Nearly three years."

"Have you ever thought of transferring to another department?" Her eyebrows raised as she turned to him. Poligny merely returned an enigmatic smile before elaborating, "My assistant will be leaving in three weeks. Getting married, you see. For some unknown reason, they plan to move to Europe. This means, not only will Gattaca will be losing its finest navigator, I will also be short an employee."

"Ah, so this is, in actuality, a pre-emptive poach."

A snap of fingers. "Precisely. In any case, I can't imagine you _voluntarily_ staying where you are."

She hesitated, murmuring, "Director Gabriel...he can be...difficult sometimes."

"He's a humorless, lemon-faced, budget-slashing prick, that's what he is."

She almost smiled. "Yes, sir."

Before she realized it, they had entered Engineering, and the familiar, symmetrical lines of the complex began taking on a distinctly deconstructivist nature; strangely sloped ceilings, occasional arches and partly carved tunnels running rampant. A series of pillars here. A rhomboid deck there. A collective of abstract forms, all interconnected with no seeming logic.

Christine had the odd impression of strolling through a high-tech funhouse. Fortunately, Poligny seemed to know where he was heading, expertly guiding them through the increasingly confusing corridors, holes and switchbacks, until at last, they reached their destination.

Apprehension spiked as the Mission Director's hands fell on the lever to the main programming unit, pushing open the double doors leading to the auditorium-sized room. With a sharp intake of breath, Christine took in the sights of the three-story wonder with something akin to stunned fascination. Particle collectors and analyzers lay scattered about the room, dust flux monitors, engines and wheels and assorted telescopic devices she didn't recognize, hummed and whirred and rolled asynchronously under the glare of a half dozen flashing cinema screens, playing the demented symphony of a billion dollar toy store.

Another laborious task of forcing herself to remember to breathe, she reluctantly, almost fearfully swung her eyes from the sight before her to the far wall where Poligny stood at the missing Mr. Reyer's desk.

How...anticlimactic.

Nothing like the sickening buildup of nervous tension to discover, upon entering the playground of the man in question, he wasn't even there.

The desk was immaculate. No photos, no coffee cups or any other personal paraphernalia lying about. The only evidence that this particular terminal was even in use was an AutoCad rendered simulation of impactor plume dynamics chugging away on the flatscreen.

Captured by the movie sim, she stumbled and nearly tripped over a violin case at the foot of the desk. Poligny quickly caught her arm before she could fall. As she stammered out an apology, he merely shook his head, leading her away by the elbow.

"I think I know where he might be. Shall we?"

* * *

Hangar Seventeen bustled with frantic activity, bodies gingerly moving amidst a cacophony of saws, cabling and portable TIG welders. A tweak here. An adjustment there. Running feet and bodies pressing roughly by them with a mumbled apology, before quickly dashing off into the corridor.

The Flight Director didn't pay much attention to the activities surrounding the newly designed shuttle, focusing instead on the expanse of platforms and ladders, searching, and when he stopped, looking up, Christine did as well. _Ah_.

He stood, sixty feet above ground, profile partly hidden by a lateral beam, perched at the edge of the scaffolding, arms crossed, a silent and unobtrusive watcher. The strange and utter stillness to his form cut a sharp contrast to the stained and greasy chaos of the engine crew.

Then, as if suddenly aware of the scrutiny, he stiffened and slowly turned, eyes first flickering over Poligny, before moving to the woman at beside him. Christine remained planted as his gaze swept over her, the barest glimmer of surprise hovering over his features (but only for a moment. So brief, perhaps, she thought, she might have only imagined it), before shifting to something more neutral. But those eyes never left hers, even as he made his way down five stories of scaffolding, ever-so casually descending the connecting ladders. Eight feet above, one black gloved hand gripped the side of the rail and he gracefully dropped to the ground in front of them.

He said nothing, merely returned the same speculative look she'd been giving him.

Realizing she was staring, and rather blatantly at that, Christine licked her lips, clearing her throat, and managed to get out, "You're a difficult man to locate, Mr. Reyer."

The look of mild amusement slowly settling on his face made her suddenly want to retreat back to the safety of her shared office with the humorless, old lemon-face.

"Not so much," he said, finally breaking his silence And there was that voice again, the accent and dark pitch tickling her eardrums. At that moment, all the odd fragments of song locked into place.

"If it isn't the Vitruvian man himself." They both looked away, startled, having completely forgotten the presence of Poligny. "How goes the work on the Ice Clipper?"

"The usual chaos. Several last minute adjustments still need to be made, but everything is still ahead of schedule. As always." Attention shifted momentarily to Christine and then back. "I've heard there might be cutbacks."

A derisive snort. "That's not of any concern to you. The only thing you need to worry about is that chunk of hardware over there getting all of you where you need to go."

They talked a bit more, of flight patterns, jet propulsion and ejecta velocity, with the kind of animation only like-minded rocket scientists could appreciate. In the midst of their discussion, Christine took the time to surreptitiously study the features of the man before her.

He was a head taller than either of them. Much like the printout, his features were striking but not to the point of prettiness. Dark hair combed neatly back over his skull. And strangely pale green eyes. Closer inspection revealed thin, barely visible pinstripes running the length of his charcoal three piece suit. His white shirt, buttoned at the neck, was bound by a deep maroon necktie, which, she noticed with an internal smirk, was just a bit askew.

There was a laugh. Christine blinked, eyes flying from the tie back to Poligny.

"Yes, yes, of course," the Mission Director barked, clapping a friendly palm on the other man's shoulder. Erik, curiously enough, appeared distinctly uncomfortable with the display, tightly wound tension in his frame receding only when Poligny finally removed his hand. "I only wish there more people like you, Erik. It's men of your caliber who'll lead us into the future."

With a brisk nod of approval, Poligny pivoted and headed back towards the hangar entrance.

"You two seem to know each other," he remarked offhand, as his assistant of the day lingered close behind.

Christine glanced back, briefly, before resuming her place beside the Mission Director.

"Hardly, sir."

* * *

"Well? Did you read it?"

Affecting nonchalance, Christine dipped her spoon into a bowl of Minestrone soup, stirring the contents in a maddeningly slow pace. "Mmhmm."

"And?"

"And..."

Obviously, she wasn't going to make it easy. Meg impatiently twirled a clump of noodles around her fork, dripping Alfredo sauce to the plate. "How goes the saga of the mystery musician?"

"He's not what I expected."

"Not what you..." Lunch all but forgotten, the younger Giry eagerly leaned forward. "Don't tell me you've already found him."

More stirring. "The Mission Director requested my assistance this morning."

"Flight candidate?"

"Mhm."

Sauce spotted the tabletop. "And Christine's life get more and more interesting all the time. Enlighten me then, what exactly does a nine-point-five look like?"

"Linguine."

"What?"

She pointed with her spoon. "You've got linguine in your hair."

With a squawk of disgust, Meg threw herself back into her chair, hastily wiping Alfredo sauce from her locks. "Don't think you're getting out of this." Tossing the crumpled napkin aside, she steepled her fingers together. "Now, spill."

Taking a careful sip of her soup, Christine considered. "He looks...like any other man."

"Any other man with god-like genes." Picking up her fork again, Meg gathered up more pasta. "My, my. Trading up departments and men in one day. I need to start hanging around you more."

The other woman bristled. "Just because _you_ use the lab as your personal dating service doesn't mean—"

The fork of caloric violence hovered threateningly in the air. "Hey, hey! You're the one loudly protesting your engagement." Noodles and white sauce disappeared into her mouth, and Christine was thankful for _something_ to keep that trap shut, if only temporarily. "I suppose you've got a week to figure it out," came the full-mouthed mumble, as Meg thoughtfully masticated. "In the meantime, who knows what can happen? You might even think about introducing him to...a good friend."

The spoon fell out of her hand as Christine stared at Meg, appalled.

* * *

The remainder of lunch turned out to be an enlightening, if rather unpleasant experience for Christine. Meg's unending quest for laboratory love had not settled well with her at all, the result of which left a faint but distinct queasiness lingering in her digestive system.

The single-child nature of her upbringing remained fiercely averse to the idea of sharing. Especially when it came to the music. The voice. The place. The one thing she had all to herself, that no one else could touch. The mere idea of it no longer being exclusively hers left her irritated and mildly disagreeable, tension only compounding as the afternoon drew lazily on.

Or it might have just been the Minestrone.

Still, when seventeen hundred and change rolled around, she found the uneasiness quickly quashed by a certain anticipation, as she once again headed to the roof the hothouse complex. She skidded to a surprised halt, however, when she spotted _he_ of the voice and violin and grand shuttle plans, leaning ever-so casually in the shadows of an alcove.

Sunglasses shielded his eyes from the setting afternoon rays. The very top button of his collar was undone, the vee of his tie hanging loosely below, its end thrown casually over one shoulder. Across the other, lay the body of a violin, with black gloved fingers casually wrapped around the delicate neck and bow.

At her unvoiced question, Erik tilted his head. "Seems rather pointless to hide now."

"I don't see why you even felt the need to do it in the first place," she snitted somewhat crossly.

Lips curled up sardonically. "Because I'm shy, _mademoiselle_. Had I known you were interested in more than just my music, I might have introduced myself sooner."

She prudently decided to change the subject.

"I've been meaning to ask. I've never seen you come or go. How do you even get up here?"

He lifted the violin from his shoulder, studying its body. "The design of this place lends itself to many hidden secrets. This," twirled the neck in his hands, "is one of them."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after seeing what goes on in Engineering."

An unclassified disdainful noise rumbled deep in his throat. "It's ugly as sin and a fancy waste of space."

"You speak with such authority, Mr. Reyer," she teased. "Are you an architect as well?"

"I might have been."

As she prepared another battalion of questions, most involving some form of _how_ or _why_, he silenced her with a finger pressed to his mouth. A moment later, the familiar whine of rocket engines flared to life.

Christine found it difficult to fully concentrate on the launch, throwing occasional surreptitious glances at the man who, in contrast, seemed entirely focused on the sky.

As the last trails of engine flare winked into the distance, she finally spoke.

"At least you'll be up there soon enough."

"Perhaps."

"Why Europa?"

Gaze still lingering somewhere in the stratosphere, he said softly, "It's a freakish looking thing, isn't it? So streaked and scarred, it looks like it's been bleeding forever. It's dark, unpleasant and cold." He glanced at her, then way. "And yet, under that ice, deep down, there's an entire ocean, hidden beneath the surface."

"You really believe that? An actual warm body of water underneath the ice?"

"You'd be surprised at the number of things that contain hidden undercurrents. It's the beauty of the unknown."

Raoul had showed her an ancient exploration map once, its drawings crude and aproportionate. And at the edges of the world, where so much undiscovered, unknown, resided, "_hic sunt dracones_" had been scripted.

"I suppose that's what you're good at. Hidden undercurrents." Turning to regard him, she spotted that tie again, as crooked as ever. She resisted the urge to reach over and straighten it. "Musician, engineer and architect. Makes me wonder what other surprises might you be concealing."

He caught her gaze and they held that impasse, his eyes unreadable behind his shield of sunglasses. The physical wall had disappeared, and yet, standing a mere arm's length away, Christine still felt its presence, impenetrable, aloof and soundless.

_Hic sunt dracones. Here be dragons_.

She counted the silence, feeling time downshift, the world gradually slow until it stopped altogether, motionless except for the tick of her pulse working in a temporal flux.

Breaking away, he stepped out towards the roof's edge. She found herself fascinated by the sharp, angular lines of his form. He had a swimmer's shoulders and back, a certain width that tapered into a much leaner, almost gaunt form below.

"I believe," he said, as time moved forward again, "some undercurrents are best left undiscovered."

"Except for Europa."

A brief chuckle. "Except for Europa."

With that, he carefully removed his gloves, tucking them into his coat, and lifted the violin to his chin.

She watched, mesmerized, as his fingers danced over the strings, stroking the neck with a lover's delicate touch, coaxing something too sublime to be simply called _music_ from the instrument. The notes cascaded over her, warm and thrilling. As the tempo increased, her pulse followed in time, drawn into the synchrony of the song. And when his middle finger fluttered over a string, the subsequent trilling notes shot straight to the pleasure center of her brain.

Oh, she'd experienced his music before, felt it sink into her, but there was a significant difference between osmosis and assault at ground zero. Over and over, it spiked through her, frisson radiating from the base of her spinal cord out through her nerves, even as his hands moved relentlessly over the violin. It was all too much, too fast, too many sensations driving mercilessly into her all at once and Christine forced her eyes shut, slapping her hands over her ears, even as her knees buckled under the pressure.

There was a scream, a high-pitched wail reverberating through her head, sirens and cacophony and overloaded pleasure transforming into precise shards of pain. And she realized it was her, her throat, hear head making the senseless shrieking noise.

Then, thankfully, as quickly as they had entered her nervous system, the sounds were gone, though the impression of having been rather unpleasantly manhandled still lingered under her skin. Carefully opening her eyes, she found Erik kneeling beside her. All traces of that implacable, sardonic arrogance was gone, replaced a mute horror.

"I didn't expect you to react... " He lifted a hand, as if to touch her forehead, then quickly drew it back. "I'm sorry."

Gathering the few remaining cells left in her pounding head, Christine shot the man a bewildered look. "I don't...I don't understand. What just...?"

"There are certain...sounds...frequencies, even...that affect the brain. Makes it do strange things." He looked away, contrite, then stood. "You shouldn't have had to hear that."

She only stared uneasily as he walked over to where a violin case lay propped against a pillar. Flipping the lid open, Erik bent and pulled out a stack of music from inside, gently replacing it with the instrument.

He straightened. Paused. Almost shyly, he approached her again.

"Perhaps it's best stick to something safer," he murmured, holding out the score to her. An offer of apology. "Such as opera."

"Faust?" Christine frowned, staring up at the cover page.

As the papers passed from hand to hand, her fingers brushed against his, ever so slightly.

"Fate links thee to me," was all he said.

* * *

A/N: Yikes. _Last Year at Marienbad_ moment there. I've taken a few, ah, liberties with the _Gattaca_ world, mostly tweaking to add a bit more realism, as the film's _science_ tends towards the more _pseudo_ variety. Thanks to Spikesbint for correcting my predilection for run-on sentences and unnecessary hyphenation. 


End file.
